Dancing in a Vicious Circle
by Triskell
Summary: Tatsumi has learnt to suppress his desires for men. Lust must be punished... (possible squick: dark sexual themes, strong language; TatWat).


Title: Dancing In A Vicious Circle

Author: Triskell )

Rating: R (squick; strong language; strong sexual images; dark)

Fandom: Yami No Matsuei (Tatsumi/Watari)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Yoko Matsushita, the manga I own to Carlsen Comics. I intend no copyright infringement and make no money off this. Tatsumi and Watari will be thoroughly cleaned and put back into the toy box, hopefully not too much worse for wear.

_**Warnings: Possible squick (dark sexual themes, pain); **_

_**darkish fic with heavy angst, featuring repressed!Tatsumi.**_

_**THIS FIC MAY DISTURB SOME READERS.**_

_A special thank you to all who have reviewed and most of all to Penny Paperbrain who was kind enough to take the time to point out mistakes I had made. All remaining faults are mine._

Author's notes: It started with me eating a watermelon on the balcony today. Somehow, cutting the thing into slices got me thinking along the lines of Tatsumi and sex; however, the poor man decided to go all dark and squicky on me instead of happily thinking about straight-forward smut. This is slightly weird and I'm not sure where it came from; still I take full responsibility for the consequences. Please heed the warnings!

* * *

DANCING IN A VICIOUS CIRCLE

Triskell © 6 September 2004

* * *

He was punishing himself. He had lost count of the years he had told himself he was sick and depraved, that his cravings were twisted and wrong. He had even forgotten why he thought this. It had been society, not his mother; it had been circumstances, not her sneering face. He had not been laughed at, he had not been shunned. He had not spent some nights drinking himself into oblivion, paying his way through the beds of whores.

He had never considered the way the light slanted against high cheekbones, glowing in blue eyes, brown eyes, amethyst eyes. He had not looked at men this way, because it was wrong. It was a sin against nature to desire the body of one's brother. His hand closed more tightly around his rigid flesh, seeking to bruise, to will away pleasure and arousal, each grip more painful than the last; punishment. Such desires had no room in his life; he did not judge others when they loved, because he did not imagine their kisses, did not dream of their eyes closing before their lips met softly, chastely.

He lusted, craved the contact of hard, sweat-slicked flesh; he wanted the physical, could never understand that perfect ideal of mutual, platonic love. He shuddered, seeing red, his stomach coated with heat, the smell of sex, still warm and oozing as if it were blood.

* * *

When alive, Tatsumi had disliked spring and summer, due to the accumulation of weddings he was invited to; school mates, distant relatives, neighbours. He had attended or declined, if possible, standing tall and aloof and smiling rarely, but always at the appropriate time. His mother had suggested he find a wife; he had nodded politely and forgotten the words within moments.

He was not inclined this way, whatever else his bouts of carefully planned drunkenness in seedy bars and beds would have him think. Release had many forms and all of them were female. Yet, sometimes, he would wake in the night with images of glowing naked skin bathed in candlelight in front of his eyes; his hand would find his its way beneath damp sleep clothes, never teasing. Quickly, effortlessly, painfully – yet the thoughts that brought his climax never were of women.

It had bothered him more when his mother was alive; after her death, he blamed himself for failing her and the dreams occurred less often – salvation in the arms of one whore or another was closer at hand. He cloaked himself in shadows, sought out abandoned alleys – never a house, never a bed. That part of his life was over. He learned stealth and secrecy, finding a way to protect his mother's honour only after she was no longer likely to learn of his indiscretions.

His death should have freed him from his dirty needs; instead, Meifu tempted him. Being partnered with Tsuzuki of all people did nothing to bring him peace – still, it gave him a glimpse of something that went beyond desire and he eagerly embraced light and laughter, uncomplicated friendship. He learned to love and the depth of his feelings rocked him to the core. He touched himself, angrily, futilely, and yet he did not attempt to reach out to Tsuzuki.

For every lustful thought he punished his desires, beating them into submission coldly – because he could not bear to break a man who was already suffering, albeit from guilt of another kind. The first selfless deed he could remember was to end the partnership that should have never been attempted. The love remained, but with the years the bleeding rage of lust ebbed out and mellowed. Three weeks, two days, and seven hours before Kurosaki joined the JuOhChou, Tatsumi woke in the morning and realised he no longer desired Tsuzuki 'that way'. Possessive protectiveness for a loved friend was by no means as dangerous as lusting after another man.

* * *

Spring and summer, while no longer filled with wedding invitations, still got on Tatsumi's nerves. Meifu did not offer as many occasions to get riled up about, but still the number of star-struck lovers promenading hand in hand in front of Enma-Cho, swathed in gentle falls of sakura blossoms was disconcerting.

He hated the adoring looks and soft words, silently congratulating himself that the Shokan division was more or less spared such open displays of affection. Terazuma had the good grace to be possessed of a furious Shikigami that prevented office-time cuddling with Wakaba although Tatsumi did have the sinking feeling that the two would find a way around the physical barriers separating them. Their affection was perhaps not publicly acknowledged, but it was evident in Wakaba's baking her partner's favourite sweets and Terazuma's barely restrained jealousy.

Actually, it was very much like the relationship Tsuzuki shared with Kurosaki and somehow it was strange that there was no apparent need to be repulsed by their feelings. Both were obviously male, for all that the boy was so young, yet Tatsumi could not find it in himself to be disgusted at the thought that they were meant to be together. Perhaps because physical intimacy seemed so far off and, as he had discovered himself, love was not something bad; additionally, it could not be fought or suppressed.

It was a warped sense of logic, certainly, and he did not quite understand it himself. Still, as long as Tsuzuki did not start kissing his partner right in front of Tatsumi's eyes, he saw no harm in their love, undeclared or acknowledged. There was, however, one thing that grated on his nerves, and it had all to do with summer heat and picnics on the lawn (or in the office, if Tsuzuki was so inclined – in other words, often).

Tatsumi had developed a thorough hatred of watermelons. They seemed to have been designed only to torture him and drive him out of his mind. A few years ago it would have been thoughts of Tsuzuki's wet lips, shamelessly sucking the juicy red flesh; now it were images of long, deft fingers pressing a knife with a soft squishing sound into the tender fruit. His heart pounded when he envisaged those hands on his own aching flesh, squeezing it, milking him, and cleaning the sticky residue up with a nimble tongue.

* * *

Sometimes, Tatsumi almost wished Watari knew what he was doing to his so-called friend; he wanted to explain, to let himself go, to push the other man against the wall and rip his clothes off, baring his skin. He wanted Watari helpless, on his knees, mouth around Tatsumi's need, so tight it hurt and stung.

The violence of his thoughts often scared Tatsumi, but it was always his own hand that beat his body into submission, relieved the immediate, aching tension. He wondered, now and then, why he still did not allow himself any sort of pleasure. No one would ever know if he indulged in his shameless imagined delights; there was no society to condemn him, he did no longer fear for his mother's honour, his own position being compromised. Secrecy and stealth could hide him, his shame could exist in the shadows of his dreams.

Tatsumi did not allow himself to dwell on such possibilities for too long. He did not deserve such leniency, nor was he able to indulge himself in any such particulars. His afterlife was a chance to make amends for the wrongdoings in his life; he had softened his own punishment already, anything more would be unthinkable.

Every time his hand closed around his need, he willed himself to think of Watari's knife, slicing into him and his grip tightened until the pain was almost unbearable. His body rushed towards completion without his conscious will and he spent himself with a flash of golden locks and laughing amber eyes in his mind. It was possible to extinguish desire, pleasure could be driven out with pain, and he had almost forgotten the affection he held for Watari.

* * *

Late Friday afternoon – most of the Shokan division had already left for the weekend (apart from those who were working on a case, namely Tsuzuki and Kurosaki) and only Tatsumi remained behind. He did not expect the knock on his door, startling him out of a brooding stupor over the quarterly budgets.

"Come in."

The door opened, Watari bounded in, grinning, two plates in his hands. He sat one down on Tatsumi's desk, seating himself beside it, "You've got to try this! I cut it all up for you, even removed the pips and I found toothpicks, so you don't get yourself dirty," he winked, "it's juicy and sweet, just ripe enough. Tsuzuki brought it in this morning and we saved some for you at lunch, but you never turned up."

Tatsumi regarded the offending plate; bite-size pieces of red, plump watermelon, almost the exact colour of Watari's lips. He should have turned back to his work. But he could no longer think, putting his papers to the side neatly, standing up fluidly, shadows on the wall twitching. His face was cold as he moved, swiftly, to Watari's side. He wanted to scream, to raise his hand and knock some sense back into the man, but he dared not touch him. Any contact would fuel the sudden rush of need, fired by images of red lips on his flesh. Amber eyes flashing up at him from beneath long blonde locks; he could not want this.

His fingers itched, he was standing too close and with a sudden flash of insight he saw he had lost; no way to distance himself as his hand closed harshly around Watari's upper arm, feeling the bunch of muscles as he pulled the scientist up, yanked him closer, pushed him up against the closed door. Faces too close, and the words tumbled from his lips, "Fuck me. Hard."

It was the wrong thing to say, but the slight widening of Watari's eyes was lost on him as the scientist grabbed his wrist, hard enough to bruise. Tatsumi's hand was pulled away, the strength in the slim frame of the other man surprising him. Both of his hands were held captive suddenly, in an iron grip and amber eyes had hardened, narrowed.

"Repeat that; I won't be gentle."

He drew in a deep breath, "Fuck me. Hard." It was easier the second time; he still did not know what had come over him. A sudden movement, he was spun around, and his shoulder hit the wall, thudding dully, his cheek scraping against the cool, rugged surface. His breath came quickly, heart beating too fast, the harsh grip on his wrists, arms bent back at an almost awkward angle; just that short of gasping from pain. Watari's hand wrestled with their belts, zips, roughly jerking at trousers and underwear, baring them both. He hissed, biting hard on Tatsumi's neck, too hard, breaking the skin.

"That what you want, Tatsumi?"

A nod, he hurt, the tight grip on his flesh a stark contrast to the silky brush of hair against his trembling hands; he had never felt a man, never dreamt of the shock of contact, the slick caress of another man's need prodding his ass. Somehow he knew it would be painful, still he flinched as he was fingered swiftly, making him acutely aware of just how much it was going to hurt.

"Sure?" Watari's voice was steady, if quiet.

Tatsumi could not have spoken. His body screamed for a touch, his mind was blank, he could not get enough oxygen, red dancing in front of his lids, eyes screwed shut. He wanted to shake his head, pull back, say 'no', and yet he did not want to stop – he was too open, too helpless. He could not get out unscarred, no matter what. He wanted, he desired, he needed that possession, had to satisfy his craving or break into a thousand pieces.

"Sure?" Watari was insistent, there, like the press of his body, the firm grip of his hands.

"Yes."

It was an exhalation, a desperate plea, a prayer for salvation from something that had held him captive all his life and beyond. He was dimly aware of wetness on his cheeks, did not know if it was sweat or tears, or both; maybe even blood, his flesh laid bare and pried open, the knife slicing into him as his body was invaded, a flash of pain as he cramped up, sobbing, choking on a gasp. Acute, bright pain, and there was nothing else around him; just that piercing pain breaking his trembling body in two, unstoppable.

He hurt, throbbing, bleeding, and he did not even know anymore, until somehow that sharp edge ebbed away, their bodies adjusting to each other, seemingly moulding together. He took a breath, gasped, coughed; something on his cheek, tickling as it trailed across his neck wetly. Long and smooth, again and again, until he realised that Watari was caressing him, fingers attempting to soothe; even the pressure on his wrists had eased, though they were still held behind his back tightly. He still burned where he was pressed against the wall, each movement shoving him further against the rugged, white-washed bricks.

"Open your mouth."

Wet, soft, and fleetingly sweet; juicy, yielding as he bit down. Another chunk of red flesh was pressed against his bruised lips, stinging where he had marred them with his teeth; damp fingers firmly tilted his jaw back, and he kept his eyes closed as the fruity taste of watermelon was replaced by heat and humidity, with a blood-tinted aftertaste. Watari kissed him, but there was neither hurry nor desire in it, just a brush of mouths and he could not really want that, but he did.

Tatsumi's wrists were released and Watari let go of his jaw to pull both his hands up and place them against the wall on either side of his head, the scientist's fingers dragging in a light caress down Tatsumi's torso before gripping his waist, holding him still as he began to move, placing gentle kisses against his partner's lips, cheek, and neck.

Tatsumi was on fire; the burn of being stretched, intense and strong, but the bright stab of pain had been replaced by an ache that seemed to throb in time with every heartbeat, every breath he took; their skin was glued together by sweat and damp clothing. The punishment he had expected did not come, he floundered; it felt good, almost like pleasure, but he was not sure; could not be sure, as he had never consciously allowed himself to feel anything but lust, desire, the immediate physical contact, but never the actual sensations evoked in his body.

It was new and scared him, the absence of pain, nothing concrete to anchor him, not even his brain cooperated to find a dark, heavy thought to distract himself from actually enjoying the contact. Watari was inside him, moving, filling; slim hands skimmed from Tatsumi's flanks up under his shirt, scratching lightly with blunt nails, not painful, just there; and the sound of ragged breaths, whispered curses was in his ears; his own voice, rendered husky and low, a string of sobs and gasps, barely formed words.

And suddenly in the midst of all this he realised that he was actually having sex, really doing it, not detachedly making use of a warm body that could have been anyone; he was aware it was Watari he was with, he knew this body, knew the man he was succumbing to, and every feeling, every touch burned through him with renewed intensity. It should not be happening, and it was, and somehow the taste of watermelons still lingered on his tongue as Watari stroked him as he moaned; so new, so good, no pain and still that throbbing, intense something that made him see stars.

Not enough, he needed more of something, had to feel more and he tried to get the word out, hoped to convey what he wanted without his knowing, really; but Watari seemed to understand, lips skimming his neck before he bit down again on the juncture of Tatsumi's neck and shoulder, on skin and damp cotton shirt; a brief flash of pain and that was it, bringing a wave of heat and dizzying feeling to a crest – he plummeted, free-fall, pleasure spreading through his body and slowly ebbing out as he felt Watari's climax.

Tatsumi did not understand it, his mind struggling as much to revive as his body; he drew deep breaths, noting the dull ache in his joints, his shoulders, the way his clothes clung to his damp form. He was still trembling and he had no idea what he was supposed to do now. He could not pull out of some faceless body he had bought for an hour; he was actually involved, and with a man no less. He had liked it, welcomed it, and that just did not happen. His face darkened, he needed to get away, put distance between them, had to establish...

"Alright?" Watari's lips skimmed the marks on his neck, then he licked the abused skin. Tatsumi noticed how strong the hands were that firmly held his lips as the other man pulled out. The throbbing remainders of the unaccustomed intrusion made him feel a little better – it was a punishment, after all; not enough punishment, not what he usually did to himself, yet it was there, real and solid. As long as he felt something unpleasant...

"Tatsumi?" Was he required to say something? He did not want to turn around, see the face of the man who had fucked him. Not Watari, no, a stranger who felt lust and desire, not his friend. Long fingers were at his chin, firm and unyielding, forcing him to look away from the wall he had faced throughout; Watari's face was flushed, hair dishevelled, lips reddened; he cocked his head quizzically. His eyes were bright, Tatsumi noted, golden with brown flecks, long brown lashes; and now the scientist was waiting for something.

"What did we do?" His voice was rough, hoarse; Tatsumi would not have recognised it, if he had not known he was speaking.

"We had sex. Did you like it?" There were many possible answers that would not have compromised him; anything starting with 'Yes', or a simple 'Hnn' would have sufficed.

"It should have hurt more."

"Why?"

"I don't desire men. Lust must be punished." His mantra, more hollow than ever. He sounded broken and perhaps he was. He had done what he had been taught to think disgusting. He had shamed himself and he had accepted it still; he had not fought, he had felt pleasure.

He could not step back, Watari's arms came around his neck too quickly, the other man being still too close for him to evade the hug. He did not return it, rigidly standing there, feeling the scientist's weight against him.

"We're friends, Tatsumi, right? I mean, it's ... friends do things for each other. You ... if we just say it's doing each other a favour? It's ... I don't want you to feel bad about this; I thought ... you didn't want it?"

Tsuzuki had taught him that love, even love for another man, was different to simple desire. As Watari spoke, haltingly, he realised that they were friends and that, perhaps, friendship was a sort of love. He did not quite see how that could translate into making sex with another man less of a crime, but right then, with Watari's face buried against his neck, he said, slowly, meaning every word,

"I did want it, Watari; with you. I wanted you."

The End.

Thanks for reading. Feedback is always welcomed; feel free to tell me how weird I am ;D. E-mail addy can be found above.

There is no safe sex in this story. This is because

a) Tatsumi and Watari lived at a time when AIDS was not yet an issue.

b) Shinigami are in my opinion unlikely to be able to contract STDs.

However, in real life, you shouldn't forget condoms. Better be safe than sorry.


End file.
